


agowilt

by La_Temperanza



Series: teekettle's tumblr tales [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/pseuds/La_Temperanza
Summary: If this was some grandiose ballad, spun by traveling minstrels known for their fondness for the maudlin, this is the act of the tale where Merlin would spring awake, miraculously cured by the power of Arthur's confession alone. But instead he continues his fitful slumber, unaware that Arthur has laid his soul bare like an unclothed babe shivering in the snow.Arthur doesn't regret it though. It's not like he's cared for such sentimental stories anyway.





	agowilt

**Author's Note:**

> So I did a meme over on my [tumblr](teekettle.tumblr.com) asking people to choose from a list of prompts for a drabble, and someone requested Arthur/Merlin. And I guess because it's been so long since I've written these two and I miss them, instead of a drabble you get this, oops. Unbeta'd.

“Come now, _Mer_ lin, I think this has gone on for long enough.”

Arthur doesn't receive a response. No sputtered protests. No snarky retorts. No ridiculous nicknames. 

Nothing. 

Once, there might have been a time when he welcomed the silence without having to utter some form of ‘Shut up, Merlin’ first. 

But not now. 

“Aren't you supposed to be this amazing sorcerer?” Arthur asks. He tries to scoff, an attempt to deliver the question in a way that is sure to rile his ridiculous excuse for a court sorcerer up in arms any other time. But the words get tangled in the thickness lodged in his throat, coming out more like a strangled plea. “Why haven't you just snapped your fingers or blinked your eyes or whatever you magic folk do?”

Still no answer. But he's not actually expecting one. The only sound that Merlin makes is his pained, labored breathing as the infection from the wound he received in the last battle continues to wreak havoc through his frail and trembling body. 

Arthur sighs and sits back, the unforgiving wooden chair underneath him letting out a harsh squeak in protest. He's been there for so long that he can feel the throbbing ache forming in the base of his spine--he can hear Merlin in his head, teasing,’Whose little backside is sore _now_ , hmm, Arthur?’--but he's not going to wake Gaius up to switch bedside watch any time soon. The man has already been through enough, whipping up poultices and potions left and right in attempt to control Merlin’s fever, all while trying to let the concern he has for his nephew not impair his judgment. After exhausting every single one of his options (and himself), Gaius had retired for the evening, leaving instructions to rouse him if there's any change. As he passed by on the way to his own cot, he clapped a hand on Arthur's shoulder and said the only thing they could do now is ‘wait and see what Merlin does.’

But the problem with that is Arthur can’t recall a single instance where Merlin has done what’s expected of him. It’s why he’s in his current predicament; instead of firing off magic attacks behind the ranks of Camelot knights, where it was safe, the idiot had rushed forward and taken the blow intended for Arthur. Before Arthur could comprehend what happened (and curse at himself for his carelessness), Merlin had emitted a deep, guttural roar powerful enough to knock the attacking soldier off his feet and take out a few of his nearby comrades in the process. 

Then Merlin had crumpled to the ground himself, because Merlin--stupid, foolish, impulsive _Merlin_ \--had forgone the level of armor the others wore. Because he was never supposed to be directly in the line of fire.

But then again, if he hadn’t stepped in, it would be Arthur lying there on the cot, fighting for his life. If not worse. 

Arthur weaves his fingers together and leans forward, his elbows digging into the top of his thighs. There’s a crick in his neck caused by the constant clench of his jaw, a slight shaking in his limbs he’s only willing to label as muscle exertion and nothing more. His right leg bounces no matter how much pressure he places on it, the urge to get up and pace the hours away almost overwhelming. 

The number of adversaries he’s fought in his lifetime is in the hundreds, perhaps even thousands, ranging from various levels of skill and difficulties. He’s faced every single one head-on, never backing down, squashing any sign of fear that grew in his gut before it could take hold. It’s a lesson that’s been drilled into his head since birth; his father always considered fear to be a weakness, a sickness, a poisonous rot that consumes the hearts of worthless men from the inside out. 

There’s not place for it on the battlefield, not reserved seat for it at the diplomatic table, and definitely no room for it amongst the clutter of Gaius’s chambers. 

If Merlin was able to--and _damnit_ , what is taking him so long to wake up--he’d no doubt rattle off some nonsense how it’s okay to be frightened. He would know, considering he tends to worry about every little thing, tagging along by Arthur’s side like an overzealous nursemaid anxious about their young ward. 

(The fact that, nine times out of ten, it turns out Merlin has a right to be worried will continue to remain unspoken. For now at least.)

Yet, in a twist of hypocrisy, Merlin is the strongest man Arthur knows. 

Not in terms of physical strength, no, because Merlin could have his ears boxed by a week-old kitten. And not by ways of magical strength either; Arthur has long since discovered his former bumbling manservant has been hiding his powers for years, though not well enough that Arthur hadn’t figured out the truth eventually. An enemy can only be taken out by ‘mysterious forces’ so many times before it starts become less ‘convenient’ and more ‘suspicious’. Even three years after a confrontation, full of shouts and tears from both parties--the latter on Merlin’s part than Arthur's, no matter how much Merlin swears otherwise--and a proclamation to remove the ban on sorcery, Arthur still has yet to discover the outer limits of Merlin’s magic. 

But Merlin’s true strength lies in his convictions, in his beliefs. And considering the majority of them involve Arthur and the future of Albion, if ever Arthur finds his own in himself lacking, he can rely on the tenacity of Merlin’s. Now that Arthur is facing a situation without it, he’s acutely aware of how much of a crutch it's become, leaving him off-balanced in its absence. 

He hates to continue an one-sided conversation, but the option of festering alone in his thoughts isn't much better. So he reaches for one of Merlin’s hands and refuses to focus on how limp and clammy it is in his grasp. “If this is some sort of trick to try and scare me,” Arthur says with a forced, half-hearted warning in his tone, “then I'll have you know it won't work.” 

He pauses to glance in the direction of where Gaius is sleeping, but the loud snoring assures Arthur there's no chance of being overheard. Letting out another sigh, he runs his free hand through his sweat-matted hair, grimacing at the dirt and grime that burrows underneath his fingernails from the action. He's in desperate need of a bath, still clad in the armor he wore into battle, but that can wait until later. 

“It won't work,” he repeats, “because unlike _someone_ I know, I don't get scared.”

For a second, he imagines Merlin’s snort, the mumble of ‘prat’ under his breath. And Arthur wants to hear it so much that it clutches at his chest and squeezes until he almost can't breathe. 

But the urge to fill the gap of silence between them claims control of his tongue, and so he presses on. “After all, that's what I have you for. That's why I-- _you_ need to get better already. Because otherwise…”

He trails off before he admits too much, more than what's befitting the King of Camelot. 

But he's not just the king, is he? Merlin never thinks so, always putting importance on the man first and the various roles he plays second. To Merlin, he's always been Arthur, just Arthur. He rarely uses any royal titles unless he's being sarcastic, often saying the word ‘Sire’ and ‘my lord’ the same way as he would ‘dollophead’.

It's ‘just Arthur’ now, sitting by a friend's sickbed, stripped of crown and throne and all other responsibilities for a brief moment, a pocket of respite tucked away from the world outside these stone walls. He should be allowed to act the part. 

“I'm not worried,” he insists, though he's not sure who he's trying to convince. “I know you'll get through this like you always do. You have to, and yes, that _is_ a direct order, Merlin.” He shakes his head a beat afterwards, lips twitching into a grin even with the current circumstances. “...I shouldn't do that, because knowing you, you'd disobey me out of spite, wouldn't you? How I put up with having you as a manservant all those years, I'll never know.” He huffs out a soft laugh that's tinged with a warm fondness that seeps into the corners of his eyes. It's the kind that he's reserved for Merlin, only for Merlin, and the connection hasn't escaped him as much as he would like to deny it. 

The logical side of him knows this conversation should wait until Merlin is an active member of it. But as confident as Arthur is in Merlin’s recovery, a part of him isn't sure he'll get another chance otherwise. He didn't have one before his father passed away (peacefully in his sleep, of all things), had missed the opportunity before Gwen and Lance had decided to elope without warning, and regrets not having one prepared before Morgana ran off in the middle of the night to join the Druids. 

Plus, it's easier this way, more pragmatic if he thinks about it. If he does stumble over his words and come off as a soppy, dim-witted oaf, there isn’t anyone else privy to his shame. No threats of stocks for a week to keep loose lips shut are necessary. 

(It's also the coward’s way out. He wonders why exploring his inner thoughts about Merlin has that effect on him.)

Arthur runs the pad of his thumb over the bony ridges of Merlin’s fingers. The skin on both of their hands is rough and calloused with a smattering of thin, silvery scars from injuries long past; Arthur's is from swinging some sort of weapon in his grip since he was a boy barely above his father’s knees, while Merlin’s is from farm work and other manual labor, though Arthur suspects a majority of it was aided by magic. Since the time they met they’ve never been shy about their touches, whether it be a playful bump to the shoulder here, a quick tousle of hair there. Whenever Arthur’s arm loops around Merlin’s neck, it’s akin to a missing piece sliding into the place where it has always belonged. 

Hand-holding is new though. Before, Arthur considered the act too intimate, too close to revealing the emotions Arthur keeps guarded in his chest, locked away in a jail cell with bars made from rib cage. 

But now, he doesn’t let go. 

He inhales, fills his lungs to capacity until his chainmail is stretched tight against him, and then lets everything out in a shaky gust of air. He laughs again and hears the stirrings of hysteria creeping in through the cracks. “The truth is, I'm more than scared,” he says, his voice not sounding like his own. “I have been since I watched you fall and I realized...damnit, Merlin.” He blinks his eyes rapidly to counteract his sudden stinging, watery vision. “I think I’m in love with you and I’m _terrified_.”

If this was some grandiose ballad, spun by traveling minstrels known for their fondness for the maudlin, this is the act of the tale where Merlin would spring awake, miraculously cured by the power of Arthur's confession alone. But instead he continues his fitful slumber, unaware that Arthur has laid his soul bare like an unclothed babe shivering in the snow. 

Arthur doesn't regret it though. It's not like he's cared for such sentimental stories anyway.

 

 

Exhaustion must take Arthur at one point, because the next thing he knows, he's opening his eyes to bright beams of sunlight filtering in through the window and catching on the dust nodes that dance in the air. But more pressing to his newfound consciousness is the lazy fingers carding through his hair and the raspy croak of “Morning, Arthur.”

Arthur shoots up ramrod straight and winces a half-second later when the painful consequences of sleeping in a wooden chair overnight hit him full force. That doesn't matter though, not when Merlin is awake. Merlin is awake; Merlin is _alive_. 

Even if he doesn't really look the part. The sallow, sunken circles underneath his eyes are a stark contrast against skin that's much paler than usual, his bangs are glued down in odd angles from the sweat that’s beaded on his forehead thanks to his fever breaking multiple times during the night, and his ghost of a grin is formed with dry, cracked lips, a whitish-pink tongue swiping across every now and then in a fruitless effort to moisten them. 

In short, he looks awful, the personification of death warmed over. Arthur opens his mouth to say just that, or at least some variation of it. But he can't. Not when the sight is one of the best damn things he's seen in his life. 

“Merlin!” Instinctively he goes for a hug but stops when he remembers the awkward angle and the extent of Merlin's injuries. Instead he settles for Merlin's hand back in his own, keeping his grip gentle enough to not cause any extra discomfort. And if it lingers there for longer than necessary, well, neither of them need to mention it. “Glad to see you're finally awake. Took you long enough.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, as unfocused and glassy as they are. “So sorry, _Sire_ ,” he says, and it's nice to see his standard level of snark has remained intact. “I'll have to remember to keep your best interests in mind the next time I take a _mace blow to the chest._ ”

“There's not going to be a next time,” Arthur says, punctuating his words with a squeeze to Merlin's fingers. “There shouldn't even have been a first time. What were you even thinking, rushing out like that?”

“I was trying to protect my arse,” Merlin huffs, “but now I'm beginning to wonder if I should have even bothered--”

“Protect your arse?” Arthur raises an eyebrow and gestures at Merlin's body laid out on the cot, bandaged and bundled with linen. “I can see how well you did that, then.”

“Ah,” Merlin says. There's spots of color blossoming on his cheeks that appear to have nothing to do with the remnants of his fever, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards like he's heard an amusing joke. “And what would you say if I told you that's not the arse I was referring to?”

Arthur swallows with an audible click before he answers. “Then I would say that you have to work on how you address your king, Merlin,” he says, unable to keep the grin off his face despite the fact he was just insulted in typical Merlin fashion, “but I'll allow it this time, as my way of thanks for your bravery. However,” he adds, “I never asked you to risk your life for mine.”

“You never do and yet I always will,” Merlin says without any hesitation. His words are a quiet oath, swearing an allegiance he has freely given Arthur countless times over already. “Whether we’re servant and prince or sorcerer and king, it doesn't change anything between us.”

Arthur could leave it at that. He could walk away from the whole experience, fall back into old and comfortable routines, and let everything remain the same as it always has been. 

He doesn't want to. Even if his earlier confession fell on deaf ears and hasn't reached who it was intended for, it's out on the open now and he has no interest in covering it back up. “And what if we were something different?”

“What?” Merlin blinks, confusion etched onto his expression. “What are you talking about--”

The rest of his question cut off by the sudden press of Arthur’s lips against his own. Merlin lets out a muffled noise of surprise, the vibration from the sound transferring over the point where their mouths connect. It's tender yet firm, with Arthur being mindful not to push too hard too soon; as strong as the urge is for this for this be a passionate, sweeping gesture to highlight what he's kept hidden for so long, he knows Merlin needs to recoup his strength. Still, he can't deny the wave of relief and excitement that ripples through him when Merlin’s rough, chapped lips press back after a brief pause. 

Reluctance grips Arthur afterwards when he pulls away a second later, and given the needy little whine in Merlin’s throats when they separate, Arthur’s hopes are high that the feeling is mutual. 

While actions may speak louder than words, they won't be enough, not this time. So while Merlin is busy gaping at him with owlishly wide eyes, Arthur interlocks their fingers together and leans his forehead against Merlin’s. “Before you even say a thing, Merlin, there's something I need to tell you first,” he says. “Something I should've told you a long time ago.”

After all, there's no room for fear in his heart. Not any more.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/Comments are awesome. <3


End file.
